A Kiss Under the Mistletoe
by AnneM.Oliver
Summary: One man broke her heart, yet another man was waiting for her under the mistletoe. A regency era short story, Christmas romance written for the 'rare pair' Love Actually Challenge for Granger Enchanted. Hermione Granger & Terry Boot.
1. Chapter 1

**_All characters belong to JK Rowlings and I make no money from the writing or publishing of this story_**

_Prompt:_

_'I'm just going keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe.' He would wait there forever if it meant finally obtaining that long awaited snog from the witch who plagued his every thought._

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**_ A Kiss Under the Mistletoe_**

**_By_**

**_AnneM_**

**_(Written for Granger Enchanted's 'Love Actually'_**

**_Christmas Challenge 2010)_**

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**Part I**

_12 December 1817_

Some people thought Hermione Granger lived a charmed life. Hermione Granger used to think that as well, but no longer. The truth was, she used to believe that she did, although she lived half of her life in secret, because few knew the truth about her.

The only daughter of Viscount & Countess Richard and Cornelia Granger, possessed charm, grace and beauty. She also possessed something that very few people in her parents' world were aware of…magic.

Her magical ability occurred earlier than most, and though her parents were surprised that their only daughter possessed magic, they did not try to suppress her abilities. Instead, they stoked the fires. They encouraged her to go to a magical school at a time when few women obtained an education. They even supported her when she left for a year to help fight in a war against an evil Dark Lord, sustaining her friend Harry Potter, even if they did not understand the cause of the war, or the extent of the evilness.

Nevertheless, they drew the line when she told them that she wanted to marry a poor but humble wizard named Ronald Weasley. They told her if she married such a man…a man without property, prospects, position, or most importantly, peerage, they would cut her off, and annul her dowry.

She was undeterred. Though still underage in the Muggle world, she was an adult in her parallel, wizard world, and did not need her parents' permission to marry. She and Mr. Weasley planned to meet at a posting station in the village of Hampstead on the twelve of October 1817. Mr. Weasley never appeared. In his steed, he sent an Owl, telling her that marrying her would be insupportable without her dowry, as he had no money to his name.

She was heartbroken.

That was a mere two and a half months ago. Her parents welcomed her back into the fold. Her father offered to make a match for her. Her mother told her that they would pay for a Season for her. Surely, their beautiful, bright, (and rich) daughter would attract a perfectly good Muggle at some ball or banquet or concert or play. Nothing was too good for her in their opinion. However, she declined. She no longer wanted to marry, not a wizard, a Muggle, a peer – anyone. Hermione Granger would remain a spinster all the rest of her days.

She was not prejudiced against Muggles, far from it, but she knew if she married a Muggle, she would be hindered by the society that hindered all Muggle women. She would be forced to put her magic behind her, forced to bow down to her husband's wishes and wants.

Likewise, she held some notoriety in her own world, so she would forever wonder if a wizard really loved her for her, or if they loved her for her role in the defeat of the evil Dark Lord Voldemort.

What of her wants? What of her wishes? She would rather remain alone forever, and have her magic, than married a Muggle, and be forced to give up the very essence of her soul. She would forever remain single, than marry a wizard who married her only for the fame of being married to the best friend of Harry Potter.

It was a double-edged sword, for which she stood on the edge, a fine line to walk, to be sure.

Sitting alone, staring at the never-ending rain that often accompanied December in London, she hardly noticed as her father walked into the breakfast room of their London home with a heavy cardstock envelope in his hand. The wax seal had already been broken, and he was waving the card in the air as he entered the room, staring at his wife first, and then at the sad form of his daughter.

"Guess what I have here, my darlings," he said as he sat at the end of the table. His wife stood and filled his plate for him from the sideboard, as a footman filled a china cup with a cup of coffee for the viscount.

"What is it, my lord?" his wife asked, sitting to her husband's left as she placed his plate in front of him. She looked over at her daughter, who did not even turn from her place in the window seat.

"Hermione," her father said, "do you not wish to hear the good news?"

Hermione turned in the seat. "What father?" she asked without emotion, without flare, without affect.

He sighed. "This melancholy has lasted long enough, I say," he said to his wife. Speaking louder, he said, "Your cousin, the Duchess of Westfield, has invited you to join her and her husband, as well as many others, to their family seat in the county of Westfield, at the estate of Westfield, for a family Christmas. Of course, your mother and I shall have to decline, as we have already accepted an invitation to visit my eldest sister Gertrude and her husband, the Marquess, but I see no reason why you should not go, my dear."

Hermione's cousin, Lucinda, married the eighth Duke of Westfield, two years prior. He was a perfectly nice Muggle. She was a perfectly nice Muggle. They were all perfectly nice Muggles. The problem was, Hermione did not want to be around perfectly nice Muggles right now, although, she hardly wanted to be around perfectly nice wizards either.

She looked back out at the rain, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "I guess I could go."

Her mother smiled at her husband and said, "It is decided, then."

Terry Boot waited for his cousin's carriage to arrive, with a frown on his face. He was not looking forward to this Christmas. If it was up to him, he would spend this Christmas alone, with a bottle of Firewhiskey his only company, but instead, he allowed his cousin and his cousin's wife to talk him into attending their two-week long Christmas house party.

It would be full of marriage minded misses…Muggles even, Merlin help him. As if he ever wanted to marry. Even if he did ever want to marry, he would never do so now, for the only woman he could ever consider spending a lifetime with had married a man that was so completely wrong for her, that surely the world had tipped off its axis at the very thought of the two of them together.

For this woman was smart, beautiful, talented, and she lacked for nothing as far as social graces. The man she married was a total buffoon. An idiot. He could never stimulate her, or keep her in the way in which she deserved. The only thing they had in common was their friendship with Harry Potter, and that alone must be the reason Hermione Granger consented to marry Ronald Weasley.

When Terry Boot heard of the lunacy of their marriage, he left the magical world and vowed never to return. Watching as this cousin's carriage approached, a black lacquer monstrosity, with the ducal coat of arms on the side, four black horses in the front, Terry smirked and laughed at the blatant show of money.

He smacked mud off his right boot, then his left, before he climbed into the carriage, to sit beside his cousin, the Duke of Westfield. "Tell me again, why have I decided to join you at your house party for Christmas this year," Terry asked. "It is sure to be a bore."

"Oh, do stop being a prig," Bradley Hurt, the eighth Duke of Westfield, told his cousin, Terry Boot. "Besides, it might be fun, or rather, a lark."

"There will be nothing but Muggles there," Terry said with a bit of a sneer.

The duke laughed. "And who are you, Prinny himself? When you are named the Prince Regent, you shall be able to look down upon people, but until that time, cousin, keep your highbrow, magical opinions to yourself. Just because you possess magic, and the rest of us do not, does not make you superior, cousin!"

"My goodness, I did sound a bit like a bore," Terry said with a laugh. "It is only, I am used to wizards and witches. I might not know how to act."

Bradley laughed and said, "You mean you might eat your pudding with your knife or something similarly horrific?"

Terry laughed as well. "Where is your charming wife? I do believe I like her better than you."

Instead of answering, the duke knocked on the roof of the carriage and told the coachman to stop outside a three-story townhouse in the fashionable district of Mayfair.

"Why are we stopping here?" Terry inquired.

"To answer your question, we are picking up Lucinda's cousin," Bradley replied. "She is to join us on our journey, and our house party. Well, your journey really. Lucinda is awaiting me here. We are staying here for the night, and will join up with you tomorrow, before the rest of the guests arrive."

The carriage stopped and Bradley opened the door. Terry placed his hand on his cousin's sleeve. "What? What is the meaning of this? You surely are not leaving me to ride alone in a carriage with some Muggle I have never met! For one thing, think of the unseemliness of it! The chit's mamma will insist on a marriage by New Years! For another thing…well, she's a Muggle!"

The duke laughed, pulled his sleeve from his cousin's clutches and said, "Oh really? That's shows how much you know, my dear cousin. You shall have a perfectly sound chaperone, for my wife's great Aunt Miriam is traveling with her cousin, and well, you shall see that all is not as it appears."

Bradley walked up to the door. Terry grimaced, but he knew for propriety's sake, he should exit the carriage and meet the girl and her great-aunt outside the carriage door.

Soon, Bradley was walking down the steps of the townhouse with an elderly woman by his side, her arm tucked in his. Behind them, a woman walked, covered head to toe in a cranberry coloured wrap, a fur-lined hood covering her face.

"Madam," the duke said, "I would like you to meet my cousin, Lord Terry Boot, Mr. Boot, this is Mrs. Mohr, my wife's great aunt. Mrs. Miriam Mohr, my cousin, Lord Terry Boot." Terry took the elderly woman's hand and bowed over it, even as he helped her into the carriage.

His back was turned to the younger woman. He hardly cared to make the acquaintance of a young Muggle woman. Truthfully, there was only ever one woman he was ever interested in, and as far as he knew, she married another man this past October. Damn his cousin and his interfering ways!

He felt his cousin's hand on his arm, even as the duke said, "Lord Boot, may I introduce you to my wife's cousin, Lady Hermione Granger?"

Terry froze, unable to turn around, even when he heard her say, "Your cousin and I are familiar with each other, your grace, but surely you are aware of that fact."

Terry turned slowly, as if in a dream, and stared into the warm brown eyes of the only object of his affection, unbeknownst of course, to her…Hermione Granger. Perhaps this would be a Happy Christmas after all. Too bad there was to be a chaperone in the carriage with them!


	2. Chapter 2

**all characters belong to JKR**

**Part II**

Hermione sat in the front facing seat of the moving carriage, next to a man she had not seen in a long time, a man she had not thought of in almost as long…Mr. Terry Boot, as her great aunt sat in the rear-facing seat opposite her. She watched the scenery of London whiz by as her aunt and Mr. Boot talked happily about the weather (which was dreadful) and the state of the carriage (which was slightly above average). However, she was not aware of the weather (horrid) or the carriage (fine). She was only mindful of the man next to her.

She was aware that when he removed his hat and gloves, placing them in the seat next to her aunt, he relayed a head full of sandy blond curls, mixed with brown and bronze, with a golden hue that was slightly longer than was fashionable among Muggles, and she wondered…was it silky to the touch?

He flexed his bare hands, showing sinewy tendons, well manicured nails, and as he placed one hand between them on the bench, it rested slightly on her flared skirt, causing her to wonder what it would feel like on her bare leg.

When he laughed at something her aunt said, he revealed a deep baritone voice that was rich and smooth, and a smile that was warm and inviting.

She was highly aware that his muscled leg was sitting slightly upon the folds of her cloak and that his elbow kept touching hers every time the carriage rocked in a dip in the road. Most of all, she realized that had she not been told he was coming along on the journey before hand, she might not have recognized him.

Settling back against the seat cushions, gazing out the window, she also comprehended that the man beside her bore little resemblance to the boy she knew OF, but hardly _knew_, from school. He was taller than she remembered, even sitting she could tell that. His eyes were golden and full of life, and they seemed to smile, even when his mouth was doing other things.

And what other things could that mouth do? She glanced over at him with partially hooded eyes – he seemed to notice and though he kept up his conversation with her aunt he glanced back at her – and she blushed.

The most she remembered of him from school was that he was smart and earnest, that he was in Ravenclaw, and that was about it. Oh, how he had changed.

The carriage continued to jostle along the streets, leaving London behind as it took them deep into the countryside, and he slipped a look toward Hermione, though she tried hard not to notice. She would rather that he kept his conversation, as well as his looks, directed toward her aunt. She was not up for niceties. She did not want to appear eager for friends, or heaven help her, something more. It was best that she remain aloof and detached. She only wished she did not know anyone at all during this Christmas party, but even if she did, that did not mean she had to be friendly.

Terry spoke endlessly with Hermione's widowed aunt, but the entire time his thoughts, and covert sidelong glances, were reserved for the woman next to him. He felt both aroused and amused by her, as he pondered why she was sitting in a carriage with a widowed aunt, going to a Christmas party with a bunch of Muggles, when she was supposed to be a newlywed this Christmas. The last he had heard, she had eloped two months ago with Ronald Weasley, yet here she sat, beside him, her eyes glaring at the scenery out the window, her lips in a gentle pout, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

He would love to kiss that little mouth for hours and hours. She was more beautiful than he remembered from school. Her hair had gold and russet highlights, her eyes shined and sparkled, and there were freckles across the bridge of her nose that he had never even noticed before. He wondered if those freckles lent themselves to other places on her body besides her nose. He would love to find out. He would spend hours upon hours mapping out the path of those freckles, never tiring of their endless journey around kneecaps, thighs, breasts and navel.

Back in school, she would always try to answer every question before anyone else could answer them. Back then, she did not care what anyone thought of her. Perhaps she still did not care. He nodded and smiled at something the aunt said and gave the woman beside him a quick glance. She was reading a small book. It looked to be a book of poetry. Unlike some women, he was sure she did not read it to be pretentious, but because she wanted to expand her mind, which in his opinion, broadened her appeal.

She brought a gloved finger up to her bowed shaped mouth for a moment, held it there, and then brought it down. He was absolutely fixated on her mouth, to the point where he did not even know what he was talking about with the elderly aunt! If he did nothing else this weekend, he would have to kiss her! That would be his whole goal! It was Christmas after all and there was bound to be plenty of mistletoe, so all he had to do was get her under the mistletoe, and kiss her, and then he would be a happy, happy man. If he died and did nothing else but kiss her, at least he would die happily.

Hermione looked up from her book of poetry when she recognized that the steady stream of conversation that flowed between her elderly aunt and Mr. Boot had come to a halt. A gentle hiss of her aunt's snoring made her comprehend the reason why. She looked from the elderly woman to Mr. Boot, who smiled at her, apparently amused. Hermione could not help but to smile back.

"I apologize for my aunt, Mr. Boot. She is very tired. She came up from Dover the day before today," Hermione explained, closing her book and placing it beside her leg, between them on the carriage seat.

"It is not for you to apologize, for I take no offense. I did not think my conversation skills had put her to sleep, and please, we have known each other for a long time, call me by my given name." Mrs. Mohr snored loudly at that moment, they both laughed, so Terry offered, "And traveling by carriage can make one weary. That's why I prefer Apparating."

"Oh, yes, as do I. I much prefer that than Floo," she agreed with a smile.

"I take it your cousin knows that you are a…" and he stopped.

"And your cousin knows you are a…as well?" she asked.

"Of course, but no one else at the Christmas party will know," he relayed.

"Of course," she agreed. "My aunt doesn't even know," she said with a cock of her head toward the elderly lady's direction. "Some of the older generation in my family would not understand, hence the reason why I am traveling in the carriage with her, instead of Apparating, but why are you traveling this way, Mr. Boot."

"Please, I have asked that you call me Terry," he directed again. He thought for a long moment and then realized that he did not know the answer to her question. "I am not sure," he said, confused. "My cousin asked me to come with him, in the carriage, so I relented, although he does not seem to be traveling with us, does he?"

"No, he does not, so do you know what that makes you?" she asked, leaning toward him, picking up her book from the seat between them, even as she lowered her hood in the warming carriage. She reached up with her free hand and tucked a long strand of hair, which had escaped her chignon, behind her ear.

"A loving relative?" Terry asked with a smile. He reached over to her hand and took the book from it, placing it back on the bench between them.

Hermione smiled back and said, "I was going to say a fool, but you may put it in whatever light you would like."

He narrowed his gaze at her, then pointed his finger and said, "You have a wicked tongue, Miss. I do not recall that about you."

"And I am only joking," she leveled. "Do you know what I recall the most about you?"

He folded his arms in front of him. "That I am dashing and incredibly handsome?"

"No," she quipped, although she thought that he was undoubtedly both of those things.

He frowned and snapped, "Then what?"

"That you were always so nice," she said.

He placed his hands on his heart, made a pained expression, and said, "You wound me, sweetheart, you truly do. Nice? No man wants to be thought of as nice!"

Hermione laughed, throwing her head back slightly. "I am sorry, but that is my assessment and it will duly stand."

"What may I do to change it? I must change it!" he said playfully, banging his fist on his knee. "I must have my due! Change your mind, or else, I must change it for you." The strand of hair, which she had placed behind her ear moments ago, escaped once more, when she laughed. He wanted to touch it so badly, just to show her that he wasn't NICE.

"Do something dastardly and I shall be forced to change my mind, until then, you are nice, so be it," she declared.

He sighed. "Perhaps later, when you get to know me better, I'll do something so utterly dastardly that you will be forced to change your assessment," he proclaimed.

"I am sure you will. Most men do," she said honestly.

Terry frowned slightly at that. The carriage went over a large pothole and her book went from the seat to the floor. They both bent at the same time to retrieve it. He was quicker, and his hand picked up the book as her hand brushed against his. She pulled away swiftly, apologizing, even as he brought the book up, read the title, and then said, "Love poems, how quaint. Of course, you know there is no such thing, Hermione."

"No such thing as books, or poems?" she asked sarcastically.

"Now you are not being, nice, sweetheart, to poke fun at me. You know I mean, love, so stop being obtuse. There is no such thing as love; hence, love poems are a thing of folly." He held the book above her hand, though he smiled as he said it.

"Are you a cynic?" she asked, holding her hand out, waiting for her book. She wanted to tell him that if anyone had a right to be misanthropic about love it should be her…for she had known real love, and it was smashed to pieces, and she was left feeling like a fool.

He wanted to tell her that he was not a skeptic, but until he felt real love, deep in his heart, mutually returned, he would save his assessment. He plopped the book in her waiting hand and said, "No, not a cynic, sweetheart, but I do not know if I believe in love. Do you?"

"I believe I would rather read than talk, if you do not mind," she said as a way of answering. She opened her book, only to close it again. Placing the closed book under her thigh, she leaned her cheek against her hand and looked back out the carriage window. How could she ask this man if he was a cynic, and how could she answer his question in return, when the answer was 'yes' of course she was a cynic…she no longer believed in love. She should throw the book of poems right out the window.

They rode on in silence for another quarter of an hour, until Terry asked, "What happened to Mr. Weasley?"

That question had so surprised her that she looked up in shock. She looked up into his face, and thought she saw a look of arrogance there. Another pothole caused her to bump into him, and also caused the blasted book to fall back to the floor. Defensively, she said, "My relationship with Mr. Weasley is really none of your concern."

He said, "I would say that since you do not seem to be Mrs. Ronald Weasley at the moment, you really do not have a relationship with him in which to be anyone's concern. I guess what I was trying to ask was, were you or were you not about to marry him this past fall? That was the news that I had heard, at any rate."

She fairly seized with anger. Such audacity she would expect from someone like Draco Malfoy, but it was only moments ago that she had said that this man was nice…NICE! Apparently, he did not possess one nice bone in his entire body! Her chest felt constricted and her hand itched, because she wanted to strike him. Instead, she reached down to pick up the fallen book of poetry once again.

He reached down as well. Instead of his fingers closing around the spine of the small book, they closed around her fingers, encasing her hand in his. He was embarrassed by his mistake, and so was she. She tried to pull her hand from his, though he held her hand tighter than before. His grasp was dominant, but tender. Again, she tried to pull her hand from his hold, but he held on tighter still.

"Let go!" she hissed.

"Tell me what happened between you and Weasley!" he insisted.

"I've changed my mind!" she stated.

"Concerning what?"

"You aren't a nice man! Now let go of my hand! This is highly inappropriate! We aren't even wearing gloves!" she remarked.

His hand was warm. Hers was cold. He flexed his fingers, but his grasp didn't waver. Her hand was so small, so fragile, and so delicate, he could crush her fingers if he wanted to, but he would never do that. She looked out the window and said, "We are almost there. My aunt shall awaken soon. You must let go of my hand!"

Instead of letting go of her hand, he grasped it between both of his, turning it slightly between them both, so that her palm was facing upwards. He toyed with her fingers slightly, his fingers rough against her smooth ones. Shocked by the intimacy between them, she could only stare out the window once more, as she tried to regulate her breathing. He laced her fingers through his, brought her hand up to his mouth, and kissed the top of her hand just as the carriage drew to a sudden stop. Hermione closed her eyes at the exact moment that his lips touched the top of her hand.

And her aunt opened her eyes at that very moment.

He smiled at her aunt, released Hermione's hand quickly, and said, "We are here, Mrs. Mohr."

The next few things happened very quickly. Terry Boot leaned over, picked up Hermione's book, even as he leaned over even more for his hat and gloves. Then he turned slightly in his seat, so that his back was turned toward the elderly woman, and so that he was facing Hermione. He placed her book gently on her lap, as she held her gloves in one hand.

Before she knew what was happening, he ran his bare index finger down her face, and then finally tucking the stray strand of hair behind her ear, he mumbled, "There, although whether that proves if I'm naughty or nice remains to be seen. By the by, you owe me two things, Hermione. One is an explanation of the truth about what happened between you and Weasley. The other, well, it also remains to be seen."

Actually, the other one was a kiss under the Mistletoe…but he would let that one be a surprise.

Hermione felt confused by his statement even as she began to place her gloves on her shaking hands. He reached over and pulled her hood up over her hair, before he exited the carriage, which made her fumble with her gloves even more. He held out his hand for her aunt, after which he held out his hand for her. Hermione followed her aunt's lead, although she was hesitant to place her hand in Mr. Boot's hand. For appearance sake, she knew that she must.

A bitter wind blew as she stepped down one step of the carriage, and then the other. She placed a now gloved hand in his, as he looked up in her brown eyes and said, "Until later, Miss."

Staring deeply into his eyes, she said, "Wait. What is the second thing that I owe you, Sir?"

Instead of answering, he tucked her aunt's hand in his arm and walked her into the large estate, leaving Hermione Granger standing alone outside the carriage, feeling befuddled, bereft and bewildered.


	3. Chapter 3

**all characters belong to JKR**

**Part III**

Hermione Granger walked toward the grand entrance hall of the Duke of Westfield's estate, and the warm air from the large drawing room battled in sharp contrast to the cold air that churned from under the large main doors, swirling around her skirts, causing a schism of emotions as well as different sensations to her body. Her skin prickle from the heat, but she shivered from the cold, as she made her way around the massive home.

She felt alone, but was highly aware of a mass of people everywhere, which was another contradiction. Her aunt was nowhere in sight, and neither was Mr. Boot, but she heard laughter and singing from the other guests, and she saw many servants running from one room to the next.

Shortly after they arrived, she was shown to her room, where she freshened-up and changed her clothing. Now, walking the long cavernous hallways of the large estate, she felt the biting cold of December, both inside the large house, and inside her fragile heart. Why did Mr. Boot have to mention Ronald? As if she needed someone to remind her of her failed elopement. Pausing outside the parlor doors, she wondered how many other people knew of the debacle. Walking onward, with her head down, her arms around her slender body, she practically ran into an enormous vase, which just stood outside the drawing room doors.

Hold her arm, after hitting it against the stone urn; she looked up into the eyes of Terry Boot, with eyes that quickly filled with tears from pain. The smile on his face turned to an instant frown as he approached her; taking her arm in his hands, with an air of intimacy that was highly inappropriate, highly possessive, and mildly explosive, he pushed back her sleeve to examine her injury.

Her shawl dropped off the crook of her arm to the floor as he held her delicate forearm between his hands, rubbing the tender bruised area gently with his thumbs. "What have you done?" he asked in a scolding, yet teasing manner. "You will blemish and mar your porcelain complexion, Hermione. That is what happens when you walk around dreaming of love poems, sweetheart."

"Mr. Boot," she warned, looking around the area near the open doors, making certain no one was aware of his air of familiarity. "I assure you, I was not thinking of love poems," she chided, trying to pull her arm from his grasp, but he held tightly. Another wave of air hit her, but this one was warm, and it came directly from his skin. It was as if a fire started from within, and tickled her stomach, before it spun around her midsection and then rested in her toes. The mere brush of his hands on her skin caused her to feel as if icicles were melting in her soul.

She was aware of making a small noise, like a coo of a dove, in the back of her throat, as his fingers continued to probe and prod her sensitive flesh. He released her arm, only to bend down for her shawl. Placing it carefully around her shoulders, his fingers skimming her neck as he pulled long tendrils of hair out from under its shield, he asked, "What had you so distracted, that you ran into that blasted vase, if it was not love poems, or me?"

"I was thinking about Mr. Weasley," she answered truthfully, although it would have been just as truthful to say that she was also thinking of him.

He suddenly looked cross and warned, "You really must watch what you are doing." He turned from her and walked into the opened double doors. Hermione followed, but slowly, knowing she had vexed him, and not sure why.

The sight that greeted her as she walked into the large, central room filled her with dread. There were many young people around, most she did not know (so she assumed they were from the duke's family). The women were all dressed in vibrant colours such as brilliant reds, shimmering golds, and glittering greens. The fabrics were rich and vibrant as well: velvets, satins, and lace. The men were just as fine, in black and grey trousers, black boots or slippers, shiny waistcoats that shimmered as much as the ladies' dresses, and top coats made of superfine, brilliant black wool.

She looked down at her blue, wool day dress, adored with not so much as one piece of ribbon, or one piece of lace. She assumed the festivities would not start until tomorrow, when her cousin, the duchess, and her husband arrived, so she had not even considered that she should dress for dinner. Apparently, she was wrong.

And suddenly, she felt like an outsider, and she realized that she felt more alone and sad than she would have felt if she had stayed in her own home, all alone, even with her parents away for Christmas. She knew no one here, save for her great aunt, her cousin, her cousin's husband, and Mr. Boot, who suddenly seemed angry with her, and furthermore, she didn't want to know anyone. She didn't want to put on a happy façade for these people for Christmas. Frankly, she just wanted to go home.

Wasn't that just her luck? She left London so not to feel lonely at Christmas, yet for some reason, she felt lonelier here than she had felt in a very long time. No one cared or bothered to make introductions to her, as she slipped inside the room, found a place by the fire, sat down, pulled out her little book of poetry, and began to read.

"Who is that pretty little thing, by the hearth, looking rather alone and like a little angel in world of glittering devils?" a cousin asked Terry. Terry looked over toward Hermione as she sat all alone, by the fireplace, reading her blasted book of love poems.

"That is Lady Hermione Granger, first cousin to her ladyship, the Duchess of Westfield," Terry commented. "We have known each other practically since we were in leading strings."

The chap slapped Terry on the back and said, "Way ho, old chap, introduce us, what say you? I might even get a chance at her under the mistletoe, before Christmas is over."

Terry almost growled low in his throat. It was bad enough that she was sad and still thinking of Ronald Weasley! He could throttle that man for hurting her so badly that she was depressed and distracted! Still – no one was kissing Hermione Granger under the mistletoe but him! Before he could say a word, the duke and duchess, Lucinda and Bradley, came walking into the large parlor, smiling and greeting all their guests.

Terry looked at them, surprised, and then he glanced over at Hermione, who also seemed surprised to see them. Before she could stand from her stool to greet them, Terry barged over and said, "I thought you were both staying at your Uncle Granger's house for the night, and coming tomorrow."

"Oh no," Bradley answered, "There's a terrible snow storm coming, cousin. We had to come right behind you. Had to borrow Lucy's Uncle's carriage and it wasn't nearly as smooth a ride as I'm sure you had."

Hermione snapped her book closed and watched the conversation with interest. She looked at Lucinda and gave her a 'haughty' look. She thought Lucinda looked a bit guiltily back at her. Had her cousin and her cousin's husband conspired to have her and Mr. Boot travel alone, together, (save for Great Aunt Mohr) today? If so, that was insupportable of them! She would not be manipulated!

"Dinner in an hour!" the duchess suddenly announced, turning from her cousin. Hermione stood and started from the room. Before she could make her escape, Terry met her at the door and grabbed her arm. "Oh no you don't," he leveled. "You are not leaving me alone in there with that plotting pair!"

She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out into the hallway, which he found endearing. She looked vexed, which he found charming. "I know!" she hissed. "How dare they try to play matchmaker between us, merely because we are the only magical people they each know!"

"Yes…wait, what?" Terry pulled his sleeve from her grasp. "You assume they are playing matchmaker only because we are both magical?"

"What other reason could there be?" she asked.

Terry laughed outright. "I will have you know, that I am not the only magical person the duke knows, and I am also considered quite the catch, by Muggles and witches alike."

Hermione snickered.

He couldn't help but smile at her as he pointed his finger toward her. "I am, Hermione Granger!"

"Yes, yes, I am sure you are the catch of the season!" she herald, still smiling. Her smile all but vanished when she said, "Wait, I confided in my cousin, about my failed elopement. She told you, didn't she? That was how you knew. She feels sorry for me…, as do you. You all think that I need someone to find a husband for me, is that it?" She genuinely looked shocked and appalled.

His brows furrowed and he said, "I assure you, Hermione, you cousin did not betray your confidence. Yes, I know of your failed elopement, and as to how, I would rather not say at the moment, but pity is the last thing I would ever feel for you."

"What is the most you would feel for me?" she asked with a raise of one eyebrow.

Leaning against the wall, crossing his arms, he said, "I am too much of a gentleman to say, sweetheart. What is the most you feel for me?"

"I feel nothing for you!" she lied.

He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, leaned forward, until his warm breath felt like a caress against her cheek and he said, "Liar." She brought her hand up, to within inches of his face, mockingly, enjoying the fact that he was being playful with her. She acted as if she was going to defend her honour with a strike to his cheek as she joked, "I never lie, take that back, sir, or face my wrath!"

His infectious smile grew wider and he reached for her hand, even though it was in no danger of striking him. Bringing it down against his side, holding her hand wrapped loosely in his, his thumb pressing warmly against her palm, he said, "I would surely lose any duel I would fight against you, and in the face of all these Muggles, there would be nothing worse than losing to a woman, so I concede. You are all goodness and light, and I am the evil one. Well, along with my cousin, and your cousin, of course."

She didn't seem to notice that he still had her hand, or at least she didn't want him to think that she noticed, as she observed, "The conniving pair! I only wish we could prove to them that we do not need them to meddle in our business!"

"You know, the more we fight it, and the more we act all solemn and as if we do not want to have anything to do with each other, the more those sick little lovebirds are going to want to throw us together. We should make it hard for them, or should I say, make it almost too easy for them."

She listened to his words carefully and asked, "What do you have in mind?"

He pulled her from the main hallway, down another corridor, away from the drawing room. Dropping her hand at last, though he didn't want to, he continued, "Actually, I think we should give them a taste of their own meddling. We should make it too easy for them…fall for each other before their meddling even starts, all for show of course. Have it end on Christmas Eve, with a kiss under the mistletoe, and then we shall announce to the world that we knew all along they were playing cupid, and we were onto their tricks!" He knew she was smart, but he was smart as well. Would she see through his ploy?

She regarded his words and his countenance for several long moments, before she said, "No matter what, I shall never marry, Mr. Boot."

"I merely want to trap my cousin in his own trap, with a pretend kiss under the mistletoe. Who wants to marry you?" he said as a way of joking, but she looked as if he had slapped her.

"Apparently, no one, and that sir, is the point of this story," she moaned wearily. Planting her hands on her face, she asked, "Would you make my excuses at dinner. I feel the need for a long walk." She went up the stairs to find her coat, hat, muff and scarf. She had many things to think of, most of all, Terry Boot's insane plan - which she saw for what it was – an elaborate ploy of his own to kiss her on Christmas Eve, with a real kiss. The question, though, was if she wanted to play along, or did she want it to be real?


	4. Chapter 4

**all characters belong to JKR**

**Conclusion - Part IV **

**Christmas Eve - **

The last two weeks leading up to Christmas Eve had been full of waiting and anticipating, and now that Christmas Eve had finally come to Westfield Hall, Hermione Granger and Terry Boot were each filled with equal, but opposite emotions.

Mr. Boot was filled with a want, a need, and a desire; in fact, one might say he was eagerly _waiting_ for something…but what? Something elusive. Something that until tonight was always out of his grasp and unobtainable.

Hermione Granger was slowly being driven to the point of distraction, constantly on the cusp, driven to the brink of something, something that left her feeling worried, wanting, and pending _anticipation_ of an emotion that she had long since denied she would ever feel again.

Was it love? Perhaps.

That word was a bit premature, to be certain, but after almost two weeks with Mr. Boot and his machinations, she felt something akin to happiness again. At least that was something. Now she only had to find out if he felt the same and if he would keep his pledge to meet her under the mistletoe tonight.

_**Let's go back to Day 1 - **_

Truly, at the start, she thought she was too smart for his schemes and plots. He might have been in Ravenclaw, but she was Hermione Granger, the smartest witch of them all, and Lucinda, The Duke, or Mr. Terry Boot would not play her. However, she had no weapon against her own traitorous heart. If it wanted to play willy-nilly with her mind, intellect and emotions, she could do little to stop it.

That first evening, when she avoided dinner and took a winter stroll instead, she truly gave the matter deep thought and careful consideration. Mr. Boot was attractive, smart, intellectual, witty, a bit caustic, and she feared, too readily available. If she had not been thrown together with him on this Christmas holiday, would she have even given him a second thought? The answer, unfortunately, was 'no'.

Nevertheless, they were together, thanks to her cousins' matchmaking, and though Terry Boot pretended, (nay, schemed) that he was as outraged as she, and that he thought they should get back at their cousins by playing their game, Hermione was too smart for that subterfuge. She knew the man's intentions were otherwise engaged, but was he truly and genuinely interested in her? Unfortunately, on that first night, she felt that her heart was not open to love and that she was not up to pretending otherwise and she fully prepared to tell him so.

She walked along the icy path of the winter gardens that first evening pondering her situation. Decked with winter garb wrapped securely around her - gloves, scarf, cape with hood on her head, eyes on the path, toe of boot kicking an icy pebble before her - she knew one thing: no matter how angry she was with her cousin's manipulation, she was angrier still that Mr. Boot thought he could maneuver her even more.

For that reason, she was going to act as cold and icy toward him as the winter weather was before her. She would pointedly avoid him; perhaps she would avoid all pleasant company. She would not participate in any of the Christmas activities. She would tell Lucinda, never leaving her with any doubt that she was wise to her matchmaking and consequently, it was to stop immediately, or she would go home and spend Christmas alone.

Still determined in her cause, justified with her outraged, feeling morally warranted, she kicked the pebbled across the icy path, pretending it was Ronald's head, as she practiced what she would say to Mr. Boot. Just as she did, her foot slipped out from under her and she fell upon the glassy surface of the stones beneath her feet, her skirts and cloak a mass of material underneath her, her pride not far behind.

On her way to the ground, she saw a silent figure rushing toward her from the corner of her eye. Mr. Boot was upon her in two seconds, scooping her up from the ground, one warm hand coming around to her back, another under her legs, as he swept her up against a warm, hard chest.

"What happened?" he asked, concerned, carrying her over to a small fountain. He sat her on the side.

"I was kicking a pebble, pretending it was Mr. Weasley's head, and I slipped on the ice. Truly, I could have walked, I am not injured. My pride is a bit bruised, but nothing else." She sighed slowly, her hands in her lap.

Still, he removed his greatcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders. She trembled under the feel of it, heavy and warm from his body. He rested his hands upon her shoulder and smiled, even as he said, "Do you often imagine inanimate objects as people's heads?"

"Not often," she answered. "Mr. Boot, I have come to a decision." She changed the course of the conversation, so he sat down next to her, in rapt attention, to listen.

"Do tell, sweetheart," he coaxed.

"We cannot pretend blindly to go along with our cousins' plotting. It would have disastrous results. I am afraid that I will not stand for it," she answered truthfully. She stood to leave, but wobbled on an apparent uneasy ankle. She reached out for his shoulder to steady herself. "Also, I have come to the conclusion that this is nothing but a game to you. That you see me as a conquest, or something to be won. You think you are smarter than I am, and that I cannot see through your ploy, but I do. You do not have any genuine feelings for me, nor are your intentions honourable, as I have never heard you voice them in the past."

She removed her hand and continued, "Your heart might be able to withstand a fortnight of fun and games at my expense, but after my disastrous failed elopement with Mr. Weasley, I am afraid that my heart would not be able to stand the blow or pain of it in the least."

He stood as well, pushed her back to the edge of the stone fountain, not easily, with a frown upon his face. He knelt before her, said, "I shall remain chivalrous for a few moments so I may heal your ankle, and then I shall speak my mind, if I may, just as you spoke yours."

He raised her skirts, without consent, and pulled on the laces of her half boot, even as she swatted at his hands.

"How is manhandling me, and placing your hands under the hem of my skirt, being a gentleman?" she scolded.

He batted her hands away, just as she did his, and continued with the laces. He saw the swelling even before he slipped her shoe off her foot. Reaching up further, to her mortification, he rolled her stocking down to the end of her toes. She flinched, and stared at his head as he stared at her ankle. Then he stood, took his wand from his pocket and said a healing spell.

He moved away from her before he announced, "There, your sprained ankle is healed. Now, I shall be the scoundrel that you obviously think that I am and point out to you that you know nothing of me and my intentions, nor of my heart or feelings, so do not presume to ever speak for me madam."

"But it must be a game to you," she decided, pulling up her stocking, but standing without her boot. "You are a smart man, and you thought to trick me, just as much as our cousins thought to trick us both. I say that does not speak well of your intentions, sir."

"That is what you know," he said sternly. "I shall prove my intentions to you, madam, though I should not have to do so. Every day, I shall do one thing to prove to you that my intentions are true and honourable, and perhaps you will soon see them for what they really are. Then, on Christmas Eve, I shall wait for you under the mistletoe, after everyone else has gone to bed. If you feel that my actions in those two weeks have been nothing but games and lies, then leave me waiting. If you feel I have proved my intentions are honourable, you will anticipate meeting me there. Do we have a deal?"

Frowning up at him, she said, "Just what are you intentions? Is it merely to obtain a kiss?"

He threw back his head and laughed before he sent her a gaze of disdain and mockery. "Sweetheart, you are Hermione Granger, remember? You are smarter than I am. Do you think I would put myself through such trials and tribulations for a mere kiss under the mistletoe?" He bent low, picked up her boot, and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed. Then, he stroked back a tendril of hair from her forehead, sweeping it under the hood of her cloak, his touch light, tender, and sweet.

Leaning closer, his eyes narrowed, and with his hand still on her face, he said, "If you stopped imagining stones as people's heads, and gave it a thought, you would come to a solid conclusion. Until tomorrow, sweetheart." His hand fell to his side, slowly, and he walked away.

She watched him go, her foot frozen on the rocks below, her brain mulling over thoughts of his possible intentions, and her heart tilting toward the only possible conclusion: he liked her, perhaps even **more** than liked!

_**Day 4 –**_

Hermione found it impossible to read outside as snowballs whizzed past her head. That was rather the point, she supposed, of a snowball fight. She thought it was rather immature of adults to play in the snow, and to have a snowball fight, but it was suggested, and somehow teams were picked, and even the women decided to play, so here she was.

She huffed in anger when another snowball hit her book out of her hands. She looked up and saw the smiling face of Terry Boot, who was on the opposite team.

The Duke of Westfield stepped up to her and said, "Hermione, I must insist, if you are to be on my team, that you at least put your book down, and try to plant a snowball in the middle of my cousin's smug face, in that special way of yours, if you get my drift."

Hermione looked around, outraged, and then leaned closer and asked, "You want me to use," and in a whisper, she added, "magic?"

Bradley placed a large, round, wet snowball in the middle of her gloved hand and said, "Yes, cousin dear, and make sure it hits him in the middle of his handsome face, please. It would please me to no end."

Terry called from the other side of the front garden, "Do you admit defeat yet?" He threw back his arm, let another snowball go, but somehow it went up, then down, and it landed right on the back of Bradley's head as he faced Hermione. She knew he was cheating. He was using magic as well.

Bradley wiped the back of his neck and pleaded, "Now, please, Hermione."

She said a silent spell on the ball in her hand, looked across the way, and let it go. The wet monster hit him somewhere between the chin and the neck with such force that it knocked him backwards. Everyone on her side laughed loudly and long. His hat was even knocked clear off his head.

Hoisting himself up on his elbows as he lay on his back, he looked across the lawn at her, the icy snow trickling down his face, and then before she knew it, he was standing and rushing over toward her.

She screamed and ran toward the side of the large manor house, around the corner, out of sight of the two teams. She stopped at the corner of the house, near a yew hedge, breathing hard. He was no longer chasing her. Good. She began to relax. She straightened fully, and then felt a pat on her shoulder.

She turned around and screamed, just as a snowball was shoved into her mouth. He then tackled her and they both fell into a snow bank that was up against the side of the house. He made sure he twisted and turned before they landed so he was underneath her, so she would not get hurt. She sputtered, choking on snow, her hands on his chest.

Laughing, he boasted, "If you are going to use magic, do not expect me not to Apparate behind you!"

Looking down into his face, she did not know whether to hex him or laugh along with him. Her eyes went from his eyes, which were gleaming and bright, to his chest and shoulders. Then she realized that he had his arms around her, and she was on him fully, and it was inappropriate, but it felt right.

That was when she began to feel anxious, anticipating…something.

In addition, that was when he began to wait to see what she would do next.

The sound of people approaching gave them both pause, and he pushed her away, she scrambled to stand, and without a word to each other, they joined back in the fight, this time on the same side.

That night, when she was lying alone in bed, she recalled the way it felt to be supported by his body, his arms low on her back, her arms on his chest, his face so close to hers. She liked it. She liked it a lot.

She dreamt of him that night.

_**Day 6 - **_

Having a hard time sleeping, Hermione crept alone at night to the library in the east wing. She had read her book of love poems so many times she had it memorized, and though she had brought other books with her, she thought that surely the Westfield's must have something in their library that would take her mind off her insomnia.

Mr. Boot caused her restlessness. Sitting along in the library, some novel in her hand, she stared at the dying embers of the fire and realized that she was beginning to feel something deeply for the man, and she knew that he felt something for her as well.

She often caught him staring at her. In the evenings after they ate, the Westfield's would entertain their guests with dancing or games. He often partnered with her. If it were a game, he would smile at her, or find chances to sneak small touches or fleeting glances her way. Winking at her, he would often share a small inside joke with her, or a secret, or some other way to act in a conspiratorial way.

If they would dance, he would always ask her first. Just tonight, they waltzed for the first time, and it was pure magic. It was as if they were meant for each other. No one else existed as they danced, gloved hand-in-hand, bodies almost touching, and his breath upon her cheek. No conversation was necessary, as they spun around the room, listening to a melody that played in their hearts as well as all around them.

After the dance he held her hand longer than he should have when he took her back to her chair. Leaning over her hand still as she sat, he kissed the top of her knuckles before he released them. Standing upright, he said in a sotto voce, for only her ears, "Am I making my intentions clear?" Then he walked away.

Yes, she finally knew what his intentions were – they were to make her fall in love. The problem was, she did not want to fall in love ever again.

She stood to leave the library, but as she started to leave, he entered. Without a word exchanged between them, he bowed to her, she nodded her head. He took her hand. She closed her eyes. He brought her hand to his mouth, turned her wrist to his lips, and placed a kiss upon her pulse, then released it quickly.

She left her hand in the air, brought it up to his face, and in a movement that shocked her as much as it did him, she caressed his cheek, before turning swiftly and running from the room.

He smiled to himself, daring to hope that she could fall in love with him, if only just a little. He took her chair in front of the fire. It was still warm from her body. Her scent lingered in the room. He too stared deeply into the depths of the dying embers, and began to think of the exact same things she had thought of only moments before.

It seemed she was causing him as much wakefulness as he was causing her.

_**Day 9 –**_

The night sky was so dark, it was more blue than black. It was almost a deep navy. The colour of ink, it felt oppressive, and it overwhelmed Hermione as much as the letter in her hand. She stood outside the low garden wall, in only her evening dress and a light shawl, as a heavy snow began to fall. She should feel the cold…she should fear the dark…but numbness surrounded her and she felt nothing at all.

She had received an Owl earlier in the evening, brought to her by her cousin before dinner, but because of so many Muggles around, she had not had a moment to read it until now. All during dinner, she sat across from Terry, and although the letter was in her pocket, and she curious as to its contents, she was occupied with thoughts of the man sitting opposite her.

For all during dinner they flirted as well as bickered, talking about their school, their schoolhouses, and other such mundane things. From his end of the long table, Bradley, the Duke of Westfield, smiled at his wife Lucinda and she smiled back.

They made their way from the dining room to the parlor, where the Duke was about to announce that the next morning the entire crowd would enjoy sleigh rides to the village, and then ice-skating, when Hermione remembered the letter and she decided to read it immediately. She held back, smiling at Terry and nodding that he should go into the room without her.

She stayed in the entrance hall to read the missive. She read the outside of it for the first time, saw that it was from Ronald, and almost choked on a sob as she tore it open quickly to read it once, then twice, then three times, before she slipped outside in the cold and snow to read it the fourth time.

Ronald Weasley had just married a Muggle-born witch named Sophie Martin, and for some reason he felt the need to write and tell Hermione all about it. After she read it the fourth time, and her numbness began to wear away, she was so overwhelmed with emotion that the letter slipped from her hand and she started to cry.

Terry slipped from the crowded and lively parlor, where the guests were singing and playing games, to find Hermione. He wondered whom the Owl was from, and his wonder turned to worry when he walked down hallway after hallway, and finally walked through the conservatory to find her outside on the terrace, in nothing but her eveningwear, sitting on a bench, crying, in the cold snow.

He rushed to her in a moment's notice. Without consideration, he gathered her in his arms and murmured from beside her, "What is it, sweetheart?"

She could only continue to sob. He saw the piece of parchment at their feet, so he bent down to retrieve it. Reading it swiftly, he tore the letter in two and threw the pieces on the cold, hard ground, and then gathered her into his arms again. Blotting her tears with the ends of her shawl, he rubbed his hands up and down her back.

"Is it truly the end of the world?" he asked. "He was not going to marry you, so does it matter?"

"I do not know," she revealed. "Although, I do not think I am crying for the reason you suspect."

"You do not wish it were you that he had married, do you?" He held her tighter. He knew exactly how to hold her. He knew where to touch her, where to stroke her back, what words she needed to hear. Under his ministrations, she felt safe and warm.

His lips were right by her ear, and delicately, each word like a solemn vow, he said, "I have a confession. When I had heard, from a fellow we went to school with, that you were to elope with the man, I was shocked and outraged. Hate me if you must, because at the time, we were barely more than acquaintances on your part, but I could not justify the two of you together, so I am the one that informed my cousin of your impending elopement. He told your father. If you are truly unhappy, then your unhappiness rests with me, but I shall not apologize for it."

His confession did surprise her, but not as much as she thought. She responded, "No, I am not unhappy that things did not turn out as I once thought they might. I think I am merely surprised, and chagrined, and angry above all else. He claimed that he could not marry me because my father was to cut me off if he did, yet he married someone who had less money, name and circumstance than I had."

"And what does that tell you?" He placed his hand upon her head, positioning it upon his chest. She could hear the beating of his heart. He held her tighter, almost bringing her shivering body upon his lap. She held tightly to his lapels, feeling that if she let go, she might sink, or slip away to nothing.

His body was a safe haven for her, so warm, strong, but more so, it was where she wanted to be, and it felt right. She looked up at him, and in the darkness, his features seemed as if they were painted in black velvet, and she was not sure if she had ever found a man as intriguing and handsome and appealing as she found this man, at this moment.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to kiss her. She clenched the material of his shoulders and finally answered his question by admitting, "It tells me that he was not the man I was meant to marry. It tells me his intentions were not want I wanted them to be."

"Do you know yet of my intentions?" he whispered against her lips, his breath coming in puffs, like little kisses against her mouth.

She closed her mouth, and in her mind, she thought…_kiss me…kiss me…kiss me. _She replied, "You intentions are very clear."

Yes, his intentions were clear, but they were not to kiss her…yet. He would wait. He drew her back inside the mansion, fumbling to maintain his self-control, intent to show her that what he felt was different, and it would last a lifetime.

They walked to the edge of the parlor, her cold hand in the crook of his arm, and he turned to wipe away one last tear. "You should retire early tonight. I will make your apologies. We shall meet tomorrow, for sleigh riding and ice-skating. Tomorrow is a new day, Hermione, and everything will look better in the light of day."

She thought everything looked good right now, but she did not say a thing. Instead, she nodded slightly and walked up the stairs, thinking once again of his warmth, his smiles, and his GOOD intentions.

_**Christmas Eve, Once Again –**_

All evening long the music was glorious, as was the food and the spirits. There was greenery gracing every inch of the Westfield manor house, with the largest piece being an enormous kissing bough, made of mistletoe, over the parlor doors. The evening brought the largest repast Hermione had ever seen, and all evening she was filled with anticipation and expectation. She knew that this very evening she was going to proclaim her feelings for Terry Boot, under the mistletoe.

For she was in love.

No matter that she had declared only two weeks ago that she was never going to fall in love again. She felt she had kept that pledge, for she had come to the conclusion that she had never truly been in love with Ronald Weasley, therefore, this was the first time she had ever been in love.

She was in love with Terry Boot.

It was difficult to get through the festivities of the day without Terry declaring his feeling for Hermione. Every time he saw her on Christmas Eve, he wanted to pull her to his chest and kiss her senseless, and he could only hope that she felt the same. Worried, anxious, anticipating tonight…he knew that she had not loved Ron the way she loved him, yet he also knew she felt heartbroken when the other man had kept her waiting at the posting Inn, anticipating their elopement.

Therefore, Terry decided he would wait under the mistletoe forever if it meant finally obtaining that long awaited kiss from the witch who plagued his every thought. He had craved, desired, longed for her, and soon, very soon, she would be his.

Terry paced his room for hours after dinner and dancing. Everyone said goodnight, and he even saw Hermione to her bedroom door. No words about their assignation were exchanged, for he knew she would not disappoint him. Leaving her at her door was the hardest thing he had ever done, but it was a matter of honour and trust.

He had to prove to her that his intentions were honourable: that he loved her more than life itself. He had to prove to her that she could trust him, rely on him, and that when he said he would be there for her, that he would.

At the assigned time, twelve minutes after midnight, he said to himself, "I'm just going keep on waiting underneath the mistletoe." Even if she were late, he would wait for her. Hell, looking up at the mistletoe, he thought of every reason why he could not have her, and every reason why he could. The possibility that she might want him as much as he wanted her was an impossible dream, yet even as he stared up at the kissing bough, the little white berries almost dancing before his eyes, he heard her footsteps in the hallway behind him.

Closing his eyes in anticipation, he waited for her to approach.

Running down the hallway, her heart leapt when she saw that he had not disappointed her, and that he was truly waiting for her! He was there! He loved her! She loved him!

Her hand reached out for his arm.

He turned around.

A haze, a midst, a luring silence, hung heavy around them, as she gazed up at him and he down at her. Her hand was still on his arm, so he reached for her as well, to anchor himself to her, yet it was not enough. Pulling closer, his hands on the bare skin of her arms, he brought her chest up to his.

His breath smelled like chocolate and mint. Her hair like honeysuckle. She shook, from nerves, and he shook from something baser, rawer, less refine. He wanted to smile at her, tell her not to worry, that it was all right, yet speech evaded him for a few moments.

Drawing her into the warmth of his body, crushing her breasts to his chest, his hands moved…one from her arm to the back of her head, cradling it lightly, his fingers touching the soft mass of curls, the other pressing against the rows of buttons against her back.

Her hands went around his waist, under his coat, to the silky softness of his waistcoat.

"I must know, sweetheart," he said, before he began, "Do you finally know what my intentions are?"

"You intend to kiss me under the mistletoe, to show me that you love me, and I intend to let you, to show you that I love you, too," she replied.

That was the correct answer.

Their lips met, and nothing was ever as good, or perfect, or more right in the world.

- The End -


End file.
